Lisa's Ream

By John David Petty

Lisa, an intelligent and attractive high school senior, is on a quest to understand happiness. Guided by her middle-class values, Christian faith, and a keen interest in science and philosophy, she navigates life with her unpredictable, alcoholic mother and her own inner demons. Dreaming of a freedom as delicate as a butterfly’s, Lisa finds solace in her final year when she meets Christos, an accomplished long-distance swimmer.
Captivated by Christos’s love for beauty and his laid-back nature, Lisa joins his family’s Greek band as a singer and dancer after graduation. Fortuitously inheriting substantial assets, she establishes a thriving taverna, though at the expense of her health.
However, Lisa’s world shatters when she uncovers Christos’s hidden traits of deception and dishonesty, defended by him through Machiavellian principles and a curious analogy to Santa Claus. This revelation challenges her deeply held Christian virtues and scientific rationale. Resolute to win her trust, Christos undergoes a transformation, adopting honesty and humility.
Ultimately, the couple finds common ground and retreats to Christos’s inherited farm on a picturesque Greek island. There, amidst ancient stone houses, pencil pines, and the crystalline Aegean Sea, they rediscover each other and perhaps the elusive happiness Lisa has been seeking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035814862

John David Petty

John David Petty is a retired analytical chemist/inventor; founder and previous owner of Ionode Pty Ltd, a manufacturer of electrochemical sensors. He is the holder of six US patents with counterparts in other countries and has a number of papers in leading analytical chemistry journals relating to his inventions, co-authored with academic collaborators and industrial sponsors. He is widely read, and his work has been influenced by many authors. John has no previously published novels.

Book preview

Chapter 1

My name is Lisa Smith. Age thirteen. When I grow up, I want to write a novel so I can become rich and famous. I hope that will make me happy. More than anything else in the world, I want a happy life. Doesn’t everyone? I know some people lead unhappy lives. That’s not for me. But I know happiness doesn’t happen by itself. So, I have to figure it out.

So that I can get experience in writing, I’m writing a report on my life as it happens in real time. No way a dairy, because my life is not very interesting. In fact, I’d even say it’s boring. Like, I go to school, come home and do homework. Saturday mornings are free time which I usually spend at my best friend Veronica’s house. Saturday afternoon, I shop with Mama and clean our house. Sunday morning, we go to church and Sunday afternoon, I do more homework. But despite my boring life, and other problems I’ve got, I’m not suffering from an existential crisis like some kids my age. No way. I try to be positive.

Lisa is my real name, but Smith isn’t. I don’t want to use my real second name for my novel in case people don’t like it, and because of that, don’t like me. I want to be liked by people. It’s the same with my report, even though I’m going to destroy it on my eighteenth birthday. I’m writing my report on my computer and don’t want to tell anyone about it, especially Mama. I don’t want a hacker to get onto my report and trace it back to me. My computer is my secret world.

At school, we’ve been getting these career guidance people turn up. One was a successful lady writer called Mrs Worthington. She really inspired me. She said it was really really important for a writer to engage with readers. So, I’m going to pretend I’m talking to you, my imaginary reader. I know that means talking to myself, but that’s ok. Like I said, my report is only a side show for the real thing, so it doesn’t matter what I say. After her talk, I went up to Mrs Worthington. I told her I wanted to be a writer. She was very pleased. She gave me her card and said she would be happy to help me in any way she could. She said she has a really helpful publisher. That made me so happy, like I was destined to become a writer.

My big problem is that English is my worst subject at school. Mama wants me to be a scientist because I get top marks for it. That’s because I have an extremely good memory and I can figure things out. I don’t want to be a scientist, but I haven’t told Mama that yet. I’m sure she wouldn’t want me to be a writer.

In English exams, I do well on the technical side like sentence construction and stuff like that. I can also parrot off stuff about famous books and poetry. But we have to write an essay too, which carries a lot of marks. That’s where I fall down. The teacher, Miss Primrose, tries to help me, but doesn’t encourage me much. She says I ramble too much, mix my tenses and should check my work for errors. And too, I use muddled metaphors and my writing lacks clarity of purpose. She said it’s too sentimental and top heavy with dialogue. I start too many sentences with ‘but’ and ‘and’. But on the positive side, she says I use ‘like’ no more than once per sentence, which is unusual these days. She says I have a flair for silly, implausible stories with way over the top characters. She warned me to keep my imagination in check because she had a past student who wrote like me and ended up needing counselling. I haven’t told her I want to be a writer because she’s laugh.

I’d like to straighten you out on some points concerning my writing style.

First. My report isn’t going to be more of my silly stories with over-the-top characters. No way. It’s going to be an accurate account of my life and the world I live in. I don’t want it to be light-hearted. I want it to be something you can get your teeth into. As I told you, I have an extraordinary memory. I can remember long conversations almost word perfect. Sometimes, I hear words I don’t know. I carry a notebook and jot them down as they sound when no one is looking. Then I figure them out on my computer.

Second. Sometimes, when I’m talking to someone, I make a connection to an earlier conversation or image stored in my brain. I’d like to warn you I get lots of those which I’ll put in my report.

Third. Because I come from a decent, middle-class background, I don’t want to use filthy swear words I hear, like at school. But as I said, I want my report to be an unvarnished portrait of myself and my life. I know a lot of famous people like writers, pop stars and actors use them. Mama says that helps them feel more important than they already are. Low life people swear too. According to Mama, decent people have to uphold standards, even when the rest of the world is crashing down around our ears. I know. I’ll write words like bull pooh as bull (…) That way, a decent reader like I hope you are won’t be offended, but you can guess what the original word was if you want to.

Anyway, enough of that stuff. Today is my birthday. Mama woke me with a present of a white dress with big blue butterflies. I love butterflies. Sometimes, I wish I was one. At breakfast, Mama told me my teenage years would be the most wonderful of my life, but there were responsibilities. When I asked her what she meant, she went a bit quiet and said she’d like a little chat with me after my party. Of course, I knew what it would be about. ‘It’ was the hot topic in the playground, and a few girls in my class were already boasting they were ‘proven women’. When I asked Mama if her teenage years were the best in her life, she said they certainly were, but came to an end when she got married at twenty.

In the fridge was my birthday cake. Mama works in a bakery. She likes making speciality cakes like birthday cakes. Mine’s a big chocolate cake with a big heart and ‘Happy Birthday from all of us’, meaning my friends are included. Isn’t that thoughtful? Mama lives for me and we only have each other. I love her so much.

Mama’s biggest worry is that if I don’t do well at school, I might end up a barista like the ones at the bakery. It has a side business of serving coffee, but there’s not enough work for that. The baristas have to put eyes in the gingerbread men and squirt cream into the cream buns. They only last a couple of weeks before they leave or are sacked. Mama says they have a bad attitude to work, not like the older generation. One barista lasted longer because she fell in love with the head baker three times her age. She worked well, but had to be sacked too. Even lower than the baristas, is an old woman known as ‘the Scrubber’. She speaks poor English and has been in the bakery a long time. One time, when I was at the bakery, I asked Mrs Slavonavitch when she was going to retire.

No can do that.

But that means you’ll work until you drop dead.

No can do that too. My husband, he sick.

One school holiday, Mama told me Mrs Slavonavitch was taking two weeks leave and I could earn some pocket money if I filled in. But the work was so hard, I only lasted twenty minutes. Mama consoled me, but I could tell she was pleased. She’d proven her point and I was grateful. That’s why I try so hard to be top of my class at school. I don’t want to be a barista or a scrubber.

I worry about Mama too. On our kitchen bench is a bottle of whisky. It goes down a bit each night, just enough to fill a small liqueur glass. Mama told me it’s her ‘little nightcap’ to help her get to sleep. But one day, when she wasn’t home, I heard this scratching noise under the sink. I’d never looked in there because I had no reason to. When I opened the door, a mouse ran out. Then I saw a carton of unopened whisky bottles. Another two bottles stood beside the carton, one half full and one empty. With my scientific training, I measured the level in the half full bottle, and again the next day. I filled the empty bottle with water to match the difference in levels. I suspected she was using one of the large cut glass tumblers from my grandparent’s collection. The volume of water filled the nearest one just fine. The tumbler didn’t smell of whisky, so she must have washed it out. I marked the position of the tumbler with a pencil dot and noted it was in a different position the next day. I shouldn’t say this about Mama, but she can be crafty. I want to help her, but how can a girl my age tell her mother she shouldn’t pickle herself? Besides, she would be horrified if she knew that I knew about her problem.

But my guilt comes back to haunt me with bad dreams. I get lots of bad dreams, but two I get over and over. In one, I’m a butterfly. I flap my arms, fly away to a beautiful garden and flit among the flowers. It’s a great feeling until I land and break my leg. I cry out for help, but no one comes until Mama turns up with a bottle of whisky and a cut glass tumbler. She finishes the bottle, puts her arm around me and we both have a good cry.

In the other, I’m in the exam room doing an essay. I’ve left it to last, so I write with one eye on the clock. I try to rub out a lot of rubbish I’ve written, but big drops of sweat fall from my forehead, so I rub holes in the paper. Then I get a tummy upset. I excuse myself and hide in the toilet until a teacher finds me and I get expelled. On the way home, all these mice follow me. At home, a tanker is pumping whisky into our house, with some pouring out of our windows. Mama is holding a big hose. She beckons me to help. I tell her my news and she faints. I call an ambulance and I’m left holding the hose.

I know why Mama drinks. She gets depressed about our money situation. We live in an elegant house built of rose sandstone. She inherited the house from my grandparents. My grandparents also left her money, but she lost it all in bad investments. The bakery doesn’t pay much. A while ago, disaster struck. She had an accident which was her fault. No one was hurt, but a very expensive car was badly damaged. She’d forgotten to pay the insurance, so the other driver’s insurance company sued her. She had to take out a mortgage over our house. She’s been paying it off by selling our furniture. It broke my heart when my grandmother’s beautiful Steinway piano went. Before the accident, I was being taught by a very good private teacher who said I was talented.

When I finished my practices at home, I’d kiss the keyboard. You, my imaginary reader, may find that strange. Although I’m good at science and can think logically, I like to think I’m romantic too. I don’t mean I pretend to be Snow White about to be awakened by the kiss of a handsome prince. There’s no boy in my class, or even the whole school, who’d fit the bill. No way. As well, in the lower grades, males and females belong to two distinct groups—like a herd of wildebeests and a herd of Thompson’s gazelles. The rule is, different species don’t mix. But I do have a lover—my piano. I say ‘my piano’ because Mama can’t play, although she likes to listen to me. I have a sort of communion with my piano, like in church. I caress the keyboard with my fingers, and my lover responds with beautiful sounds. I kiss it because I’m so grateful for its love.

Mama puts on a brave face about us being poor. She keeps saying we’ll make do. But I worry about what will happen when we’re left with an empty house. Mama couldn’t bear to sell our house and downsize. She spends nothing on herself except for whisky but makes sure I have nice dresses and the latest computer.

I’ve wondered if Mama is being treated for depression. Not likely. She avoids doctors as much as possible because they cost too much. But being the curious girl I am, I went through our medicine chest. There wasn’t much—expired antibiotics, headache tablets and stuff for cuts and colds. And there was a bottle of pills called digoxin. I looked it up. It helps with heart arrhythmia which she gets. Too much causes death. It occurs in the plant Hemlock. Apparently, Socrates drank a brew to do himself in. But I’m certain that no matter how bad things get, Mama would never be tempted. She loves me too much.

I helped with the work for my party. I borrowed some chairs from our neighbours and very good friends, Mr and Mrs Goodman. They are invited to my party, as well as my four friends including Veronica and her parents. Mr Goodman had a senior position in a government department but lost his job. He’d been down for a while, but today he looked happy. I asked him if he’d got another job. He said no. Instead, he was going to write a book. I asked him if he’d thought of a title.

Welcome to the Craposphere. ‘What a weird title,’ I thought. What does that mean?

It refers to our economic system. I really wanted to know more, but now was not the time. I haven’t told him I want to be a writer in case he asks if Mama knows about it. But it’s great to have a fellow writer next door I can learn from. More proof I’m destined to become a writer.

Veronica was the first of my friends to arrive. I got invited to Veronica’s thirteenth a few weeks ago. Her parents, me and Veronica went to a theme park with a roller coaster. I was terrified because I get vertigo real bad. But Veronica persuaded me. She said that if I did it, I’d be glad because it would boost my self-confidence. Veronica and Mrs Denton sat in the first seat with me and Mr Denton behind. Veronica is a born leader and I’m a born follower. That’s just the way it is. An attendant checked us and I checked the bar in front of me to make sure it was strong enough. When we got pulled up, I got this horrible sinking feeling and wanted to get off. Mr Denton held my hand. Going down was like falling into hell. I closed my eyes. I wanted to scream, but my voice wouldn’t work. Mr Denton tightened his grip. It hurt, but I was glad it hurt because it felt real. I had to swallow my burning breakfast. The second climb was a bit better. I opened my eyes to see where the end was. That was a mistake because I looked down. I saw a lot of little ants I realised were people. My breakfast came up again. Then we went upside down and I thought I was going to die. When we got off, I felt dizzy and couldn’t feel my legs. Mr Denton helped me to a chair. I pointed to my mouth. He kindly got me a glass of water. He gave me a pat and said, Good girl. Now you’re ready for the real world. I thought he was making a horrible joke, but he meant it. I wasn’t convinced. It didn’t cure my vertigo and I’d never do it again. Veronica wanted another ride straight away and gave me a look I didn’t like. She went back with Mrs Denton.

I now regretted being persuaded by Veronica against my instinct. I wondered if that made me some sort of weak person. I asked Mr Denton what he thought. He took his time.

I love curries, but not super-hot vindaloos. I tried one once and burnt my mouth out. I used to have lunch with a friend who loved vindaloos, and every time we met, goaded me into having one. One day, I told him I didn’t want to eat with him anymore. He was shocked and asked why. I said it was because he had no sensitivity to my feelings. He said he was only joking. I replied it wasn’t a joke to me.

Mr Denton reflected for a while. You see, Lisa, in the big bad world, we have bull elephants who get ahead by trampling on others. And we also have nice people who try to avoid the bull elephants. Bull elephants have admirers—goons—who are mesmerised by the strength and power of the bull elephants. However, bull elephants have no friends, whereas nice people have lots of friends. I was a bull elephant when I started my business—I had to carve out and defend my patch. But now I value friends more than power. That doesn’t make me weak, but wise. And there’s nothing wrong with tasting something in order to decide if you like it or not. There’s no shame in not liking your roller coaster ride. The bottom line is, it’s your life. Mr Denton’s works made me feel so good.

The Denton’s present was a voucher for a top brand shoe shop. Just what I needed. Happiness all around. Next came, Mr and Mrs Goodman. Mama introduced everyone. Mr Goodman gave me their present, a game of monopoly. I had an old one, but some of it was missing. I couldn’t wait to play it with my friends. Mrs Goodman hugged me and leant back. My my! What a stunning dress!

Veronica didn’t like that. The Dentons are a wealthy family with money no object for Veronica’s dresses, but they don’t have Mama’s decorative sense. Veronica’s dress was patterned with bright flowers but didn’t suit her. I didn’t want my best friend to be jealous, but her shoes were better than mine. Did she notice that?

My other friends arrived in one car with a man who introduced himself as Katie’s father. He said my dress was stunning too, and Veronica liked that even less. But my dress didn’t bother my other friends. They kept giggling as they handed me their presents: a big box of my favourite chocolates, a cockatoo that squawked, Polly wants to go to the bathroom, when I squeezed it, and a man’s bowler hat with a feather on the side. I put it on and everyone laughed. Even Mama, who doesn’t laugh much.

Little Katie is usually very quiet, but today was different. She giggled as much as the others. Her big grey eyes seem to view the world with wonder. Her nickname at school is Owlie. She doesn’t mind because she’s wise too. Katie is as pretty as me but doesn’t like bright clothes. She prefers pastels with no patterns. She wears genuine Indian moccasins that are way out of fashion. Mama says she’s chic without knowing it. But I like my butterfly dress. Louise is large and always jolly. Nothing gets her down. Her nickname at school is ‘Hippo’. If someone calls her that, she makes a grunting sound, and everyone laughs. Once, I asked her what her secret was. My question surprised her, because she had to think about it. In the end, she said she had no secret, she was born that way. Maybe it was her genes—her mother was the same. That might be true for me too. I’m a worrier like Mama. I’m friendly with Jade because we both love chocolate.

With all the giggling, Veronica brightened up. My friends wanted to explore the house. They’d seen it before but wanted to know what had changed. We ran around giggling at everything, even the two empty rooms. In the bathroom, I checked out how I looked with the ridiculous hat. It suited me perfectly. We arrived back at the dining room breathless. Mama had set the table with the help of Mrs Goodman and Mrs Denton. They were waiting proudly behind their work in a row.

Yummy. Cup-cakes, cream buns, custard tarts, apple pies, sausage rolls, pizza slices, fruit slices and my favourite, a chocolate torte. All this was left over from the bakery and cost nothing. The men joined us. We tried to stop giggling because Mama said it was bad manners to giggle at the table. But it was hard. After we’d stuffed ourselves, Mama brought out my cake and everyone went ‘Ooooh’. Mama lit the candles and made her usual joke about them. Apparently, when I was four, I ate them when no one was looking. I blew them out in one go and ‘Happy Birthday’ was sung. We blew streamers at each other and started giggling again. The ladies cleaned up the mess and put down a new tablecloth. We set up the monopoly board.

Veronica, Katie and I can play. Louise was keen to learn, so she played. I let Jade play and helped her. Veronica soon owned a lot of houses and was on the way to becoming the winner. I couldn’t let that happen. Not after the roller coaster ride. I took over from Jade. I got a few lucky throws and started to catch Veronica. Katie caught on and sold me her properties real cheap. Veronica didn’t like that and said we were cheating. Mr Denton, who was sitting nearby, told Veronica not to get upset because it was only a game. Then Louise knocked over her drink and wet the bank money. Mama wasn’t pleased and told us to play outside.

Our backyard has a lot of big fruit trees. We ran around playing hide and seek, shrieking, squealing and laughing. We stopped when Louise got puffed. We